


Ara Fen’Harel Din Nae Elvhen Vhenan

by Shanedan (shanedan)



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Multi, Solas-centric, The Beyond, The Creators, The End, Unrequited Love, i dont even like that fuckin egg what am i about to publish, ok, one sided Fen'Harel/Mythal, solas and fen'harel r 2 sides of the same coin 2 me, theres not much i can tag this as?? i feel as if tags were made for the porn on here UM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-03-31 22:29:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3995443
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanedan/pseuds/Shanedan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dread Wolf has no elven heart. It was sealed long ago. But the sight of her, your love renewed, makes it thrash in its sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ara Fen’Harel Din Nae Elvhen Vhenan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [demihawke](https://archiveofourown.org/users/demihawke/gifts).



> this is a gift work for my friend DemiHawke, who encouraged me to continue the stub i had after i showed it to them.... so shout out for that, u monster

She looks so much like her sometimes it makes your bones ache.

They aren’t identical— their eyes are different and Lavellans lips are curved into a smile— but the resemblance is undeniable. She has her strong brow, curved nose, thick lashes, and defined jaw. Sometimes it makes you angry, angry in a way you haven’t been since Arlathan. It makes you want to pace and scream and pray to the gods, your kin, for mercy or guidance. But they are not there. But the face of Mythal is; living through the eyes of the Inquisitor.

You never thought it was a coincidence, certainly not as Lavellan lay on cold ground laboring for breath, the key to the Beyond held in the palm of her right hand. Not when Lavellan shut rifts, and certainly not when she slammed close the Breach so hard you felt the reverberations in your core. Not when she was crowned Inquisitor. Faces of power are passed down. A recognizable profile simply does not die.

She’s not your old friend, though. You’re certain Mythal is out there, somewhere. Living. Planning. You remember her steadfast, stubborn, and wrathful enough to shun the afterlife. But that will never stop her from getting what she wants. It’s only a matter of _when_. She’s not here though, she’s not trying to get her revenge through the Inquisition. But the body Natriel Lavellan owns, the one that rains fire upon battlefields— it looks like her. It smells like her and moves like her, but it is _not her_. Your heart seizes as you try to force yourself to accept this. You had sort of hoped she’d show up.

Mythal— no, Lavellan is saying something and you guys end up turning around. Seems she wishes to go home to the Commander. The thought makes your blood boil out of instinct.

Your boots had just dried when you go back wading through the river. The Emerald Graves had changed since you’ve last been there. Before, it was just a green meadow, punctuating by red aravel sails and grazing halla. Now it is a twisting forest with old trees with their fingertips towards the stars. You look idly around and wonder, distantly, if you spent a long enough time sleeping underneath their shade, you could find these trees names. You wonder if you walked around long enough, you’d remember the area, and you’d find your friends. You ask Lavellan for a rest and she says you need to get your head out of the clouds.

You don’t know what else you expected.

Lavellan finds her target, kills her target, loots her targets home, gathers at least twenty embrium and elfroot, then you start on your trek home. It’s a tedious ordeal. All your mounts are stabled in the nearest town, since the sudden-drop cliffs are too dangerous for any kind of quad pedal. So you walk. And walk. And walk. Varric complains of sore feet, The Iron Bull take the opportunity to tease him about his shortness, Varric retaliates, a debate ensues, debate over lunch, Lavellan intervenes, they stop and rest, Varric complains about sore feet— it’s all rather repetitive.

Day’s travel outside of Skyhold, Lavellan sits next to you at the fire. “Teach me.”

“What?”

“Elvish. You’re fluent. It’s a lost language— no one in my clan knows our language, no one in any other clans— I, when I go back to my clan, I need something too—. I need to know,” she blurts out, and there’s an edge in her voice that says that she won’t be shamed for that. Mythal was like that, too. Quick to anger, quick to talk, quick to jump to conclusions, quick to make decisions. You miss that unyielding certainty, and you feel guilty for liking Lavellan because of it.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It is just that— a lost language. It will take years to learn, and you and I do not have years together.”

“I’m a quick learner. I’m first of my clan, I can take notes or work out the rest on my own or something. Come on, Solas!”

“It takes a long time to learn something, even so since that the characters are not the same.”

“Give me a book or something, some sort of ongoing study.”

“There is none. I did not learn from a book and I did not learn from a person.”

“Where did you learn?”

“When most of the ancient world is composed of elvhen and their lores and magic and books, one may pick it up.”

“Teach me how to dream like that! You can’t just keep these things from me, from our people!”

“Your people. I may keep whatever I wish from you, and the dreaming I do cannot be taught.”

“Solas!”

“Lavellan.”

“My name is Natriel. Say it! _Natriel!_ ”

You level a glare at her and she glowers back, steam practically pouring out of her little triangular ears. “While _some of us_ ,” you spit out, “Are not children who whine and cry like little wolf pups when told no, it seems you have forgotten.” Her green eyes fly open wide, her eyelashes nearly hitting her thick, unruly brows. A harsh bruise colors one of her cheekbones, so close to her eye the deep purple bags (she needs more sleep) and the bruise look the same. Her eyes fill with rage, and to your surprise, tears. You nearly open your mouth to say something to apologize when she whirls around, gold and green robes catching on the cold night air. The singular long braid creeping down her back whips you in the stomach. You think it was intentional.

“Pack up! We’re walking through the night to Skyhold.”

“Really, Elf? We’ve been walking for days, you look like you’re about to kneel over of exhaustion—,” Varric starts, his stubby legs pedaling to pick himself off of his bedroll.

“No, we’re going. We don’t need sleep.”

It’s then you realize that as a childish, stubborn, petty way of getting back at you for not teaching her to speak elvhen or dream like you or insulting her or something, she’s not going to let you walk the Beyond until Skyhold. It’s a petulant fit, and you almost curse Mythal for it.

And so Lavellan led you onto your horse with your sleep roll and staff and bag, and you ride. You try to sleep on your mount, but every time you nod off Lavellans mount lets out an ear-piercing screech. You get no sleep, nor does Varric, or Iron Bull. You all trod through the thin, cold mountain air for an entire night and half the morning. When you finally pass across Skyhold’s stone bridge and through its grey arch, you let out a long, derisive snort. You send Lavellan one last sharp look before you spur your mount off to the stables. You leave it for a small, snotty stable boy to put away and practically sprint into your alcove. You haven't been so long separated from the Fade in... ages.

You fall asleep looking at Lavellan’s mosaic face, and before your vision blurs, you think of Mythal.

 

 

 

 

Dirthamen had watched your jealous pining with the air of a god who knew everything. You despised it. Your wrathful ichor usually sent all skittering away: slaves, citizens, nobles, gods. Sylaise is fearful of you and her usually graceful speech is stuttered whenever you visit. June avoided you as well, and Falon’Din trusts no elf who wanders the twisting roads of the Beyond without him at one’s elbow. Dirthamen never said anything to you though, never sent you sideways glances or stepped out of your way. He just watched.

He watched as you seethed while Mythal laughed, for you were not the one bringing her laughter. He watched as you cursed the All Father and struck his slaves when they came to attend to you. He watched as you followed after the All-Mother like a lost wolf pup. He watched as you stalked and growled. He watched and he said _nothing_.

Upon one of your few and scattered visits into Arlathan, trailing where Mythal once was (you could tell because slaves scattered Embrium petals wherever she so much as shat), you turned down a side street, empty except for slaves, which was the same thing in technicalities. Slaves, the slaves of Dirthamen, you notice, scatter when you stalk by. Their half-blacked faces rushing by you so fast looks like expressive shadows. You ignored them, however, too focused on the red-dusk petals you crushed with your feet. You were going to find her. You were going to tell her and Elgar’nan could go throw himself into the beyond, for all you cared _._ You turned a corner and instead of the dusky Goddess of protection, you ran into the starved figure of Dirthamen. You reared up straight.

“Ma seranna-mas, Fen’Harel.” _Excuse me, Dread Wolf._ He was always so polite. The flicker of a glance you decide to spare him reveals all you need to know. He knew why you were in Arlathan.

“Tel’abelas.” _I’m not sorry._

There is an expression in Arlathan. “A blank wall reveals nothing,” and true it was. Dirthamen’s face was a dark slate of ebony, torn only by a smile brought to him by his twin soul. He was never angry, unlike Falon’Din. He always seemed to know what you were thinking, why you were thinking it— and he didn’t think anything of it. It made you want to tear his throat out with your teeth.

“Garas shem halam, lethallin. Lathbora viran,” _Come quick to the end of this, kinsman. You long for a love you will never know, cousin._ Dirthamen said simply, his mouth making no movement as the words filled the empty, porcelain-paved street. Where had all the slaves gone?

Had he been waiting for you?

Fuck.

“Halam sahlin, seth’lin.” _This ends now, thin blood._

“Sule’din’melana, lethallin. _Ha’min’in.” You’ve endured long enough, brother. You need to let it go._ Dirthamen knows nothing, you chant to yourself. _He knows nothing, he knows nothing, and he knows nothing._

_“Ma emma harel, elvhen’alas.” You should fear me, dirt elf!_

“Hallathen shiral vhenan,” _This ‘noble struggle’ will not lead to her love._ He sighs and brushes past you. The tip of your pointed ears barely reach his jaw, he is so tall. To think he is the gentlest of all the Gods is strange. The derisive look he gives you unnerves you.

“Dirthara-ma.” _May you learn._ The God of Lies and Secrets shakes his head and disappears in a haze of dark smoke.

_You long for a love you will never know, cousin._

You leave to wander the twisting roads of the beyond and scream where only Falon’Din can hear you. You smell like embrium for days.

 

 

 

There are four of in the thick of the Forbidden Oasis, which is less ‘decide on a destination and go to it’ and much as it is ‘decide on a destination and go everywhere else looking for it’ when you get the guts to ask her. “Inquisitor Lavellan,” you say. You are in the middle of a dark tunnel, lit only by yours and Lavellans mage light. The eerie green glow casts a sinister look to the two of you, yet, the idea of fearing Lavellan is so far off that it’s almost laughable. You remember she has the power to rip the Veil to shreds and banish you all to the Beyond.

You sober.

She grunts in reply.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“Well,” She says, as she swings her mage light around the tunnel. Glittering metal draws her attention, and she motions for Blackwall to collect it. “During my time as Clan Lavellan’s First, I had managed to translate a few ancient texts depicting something about the rebirth of those favored by the Creators, but,” she trailed off. Suddenly, her green eyes were boring into you. The intensity sent you to a different age in one second.

_Dread Wolf, are you always so fierce? Are you elf, or beast?  
_ “It was all really scattered. I could only translate a little at a time, limited as my knowledge of Elvhen is.”

“I have heard the same in my travels.” It’s only a partial lie. “I heard that only those who truly echoed the Gods features were reborn.”

As vessels, that is. Your kin were a particularly picky bunch about their vessels. You recalled Falon’Din having a preference for straight noses, dark hair, and thick brows. Elgar’nan liked those with ferocity all the way down to their bones, starting from the skin. Dark skin, light hair, angry eyes, thick brows, good jawlines. Sylaise liked the slight, bright, and fair. Mythal, of course, preferred elves who looked like Lavellan. You remembered sitting on this throne listening to your brothers and sisters whine and moan about how much they _detested_ their new forms, and they missed the _old one_ , there wasn't such a terrible elbow ache in _that one_. Then they decided to curse one body, one elf, one soul, to the eternal pain of reincarnation without rest so they could hold a snobbish, selfish god in their “flawless” bodies.

Selfish gods.

“What do you mean?”

“They enjoyed looking at themselves like nothing else, I suppose.” YOU crept as close to her as he would manage in good conscience. “I saw a depiction of Mythal once,” he said. Cautiously, you ran a fingertip down the bridge of her nose. “She had dark hair, long, and very piercing eyes, I believe. Straight nose.”

Remember. Remember. Is any part of you the Mythal that you once loved?

“I was under the impression darker complexioned elves were rare,” Lavellan mumbled, her skin warming under your index finger. Her eyes bore into yours, filled with curiosity. Your hand plummeted from her face.

“I suppose now they are,” You say, after a beat of disappointed silence.

“Inquisitor!” Cassandra called from up ahead. Lavellan had waved her away to scout earlier after she had admitted the futility of their wandering. How one person could simply “wave away” someone like _Cassandra Pentaghast_ was beyond him. “I found a new path,” the Nevarran said. Lavellan shouted out something in affirmation, somewhat between a grunt and yell, and then she turned back to you.

“What do you mean ‘now’?”

You paused. Great way to jump into a tangle of lies, Solas. “It is of no significance,” you mumble, and you scuttle off away from her prying eyes that scream _are you man or beast, Dread Wolf_ but at the same time whisper _who are you really, Solas_?

 

 

 

 

Mythal did, by no means, approve of your solitude. Often she would venture out into the twisting roads of the Beyond and find you. Sometimes she allowed you to linger provided you chat. Sometimes she pulled you to the Crossroads and made you mingle with the elves.

“Dread Wolf,” she would say, softly, almost. “Tel garas solasan.” _Dread Wolf, do not come to me prideful._

She was like this. Firm, unbending, but the All-Mother. Goddess of Motherhood. How many heroes had she guided away from death? How many gods away from ruin? But she was not your mother, and sometimes she forgot that she cannot lead you away from a supernatural death or a supernatural war. You were not of them, of the pantheon, and you were not of the dark ones, either. You were alone in the Beyond, in the mortal realm, in the Blacken City, and your self-induced solitude only made you gravitate towards her more.

“Nae solasan.” _I’m not prideful._ You spit, and you cross your arms. You are nude. You shed your robes a long time ago, since you have been in the Beyond for how long, you cannot remember. When she finds you in the Beyond, you slowly and reluctantly think up some sort of makeshift covering for your pelvis. Now there is just your chest, your dreads, the Beyond mud between your toes, and the stupid pelt.

Mythal snorts derisively and moves to sit down. Without a second thought you conjure a log beneath her, like she expected you too. Perhaps you are Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, but you are also nothing more than a trained pet in the end. She flips her impossibly long hair over a shoulder, and with a sheepish (but deceitful, you have learned that the hard way, Mythal is _deceitful_ ) look, she runs her long, blood-stained fingers through her locks. Her voice starts off whimsical and wanting. “Na nadas garas vhenan sahlin, Fen’Harel.” _You know, you must return home sometime, Dread Wolf._ She bats her impossibly thick eyelashes at you. You must swallow back a guttural growl.

“Ir nadas nae banal.” _I must do nothing._

Her voice grows shrill and harpy quickly. “Fen’Harel!”

“Mythal.”

“Ir lasa ghilan na len’alas lath’din.” _I can’t guide you if you insist on acting like a dirty child no one loves._

“Ir nada len’alas lath’din. Garas quenthra, Mythal? Ma halani?” _I don’t act like a dirty child that no one loves. Why have you come to me, Mythal? To help me?_ You snort as if the idea is disgusting.

“Melana en athim las enaste. Elger’nan tu na’din, Fen’Harel. Ar’enfamin,” _A little humility wouldn’t hurt. Elgar’nan wishes you dead by his own hands, Dread Wolf. I worry,_ She trails off, and her dark fingers clench her hair very tightly. Her amber eyes flicker down, then up, then around, and then back into you. “Ar’enfamin, da’mi.” _I worry, little blade._

You can’t believe it. Little have you done but stalk and rage and occasionally show up to the God’s temples and shoot of the random opinion backed by speculation, but now, this? You recall an event a few decades ago. Dirthamen had interceded, and rarely he involved himself in the affairs of mortal elf nor god… By Mythal, had he known? Had he been trying to ward you off? Dirthamen couldn’t’ve outright said _Elgar’nan knows your intentions,_ but. Mythal help you.

“June, Sylaise, Falon’Din enaste atisa, nona,” _June, Sylaise, Falon’Din, they all seek peace, but._ She trails off. She stands. There is nothing more to be said. You understand and she knows you understand. Gently, one of her iron-clawed fingers trail down your face to gently grip a lock, trace up your chin, to the wolf jaw that decorates your head wear. She knew. She knew all along of your love for her and she did nothing.

Now someone had told her wrathful, pining lover and you are no better than the walking dead.

“Emma ma’salith, ma vhenan’elvhen’ara, Mythal,” _You are my one love, the desire of my elvhen heart, Mythal._ Desperately you reach for her armored wrist. If you die, if you could at least have her. In spirit. For a day. An hour. A minute. A second! You would give her everything. The beast, the man, the warrior, the mage. Riches, poverty, humility, pride. If only she would take it. You grab the cold metal, but you do not force her to stay when she gently draws it out to softly clasp your hand between hers.

“Ir abelas, da’mi.” _I am filled with sorrow for your loss, little arrow._ Her hands, once so tender, turn crushing. “Ara Fen’Harel din nae elvhen vhenan.” _But the Dread Wolf has no elven heart._ “Ar lasa mala revas’emma,” _I free you of me,_ she says, and then she is gone just as she was once there. Suddenly.

 

 

When you leave, Lavellan looks at you like she does not understand and never will. As you clench in your hands the last of your power, you can fill the will draining from you. This orb used to be your hope for everything. In your hubris, you had forgotten the people you were to lead. Although you had always known you would leave, the thought of leaving this home that made room for you stings. Parts of you howl because you feel as if you had betrayed your brethren again, you leave them _again_ to scrabble through the mess you made, and another cries because you are leaving all you have ever known fondly in this age.

Lavellan is not Mythal. She looks like her, talks like her, but she is not her. Mythal would’ve dragged you up from your knees, kicked your sphere off the mountain, and shook you until you started making sense. Asides, Mythal lives now. Or lived, you suppose, as she has been walking the earth for many ages in the form of the witch, Flemeth. You knew she couldn’t’ve ended in Arlathan. Mythal would not die without fire. Lavellan just watches you. You suspect that she will die of old age and without many regrets. She says nothing.

Ara Fen’Harel din nae elvhen vhenan. _The Dread Wolf has no elven heart._

Clumsily, you try to press the sphere back together, the stone grinding together, but they refuse to fit. You want to scream all the curses your wicked tongue has gathered.

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“It was not… it was not supposed to be this way, Lavellan.”

“You aren’t what you seem, are you?”

“I am so sorry, Lavellan.”

“You will always have a home here, Solas.”

“I do not have a home.”

_She was betrayed as I was betrayed, as the world was betrayed! Mythal clawed and crawled her way through the ages to me and I will see her avenged!_

_  
_ You know what you have to do.

Cassandra calls for Lavellan (“Inquisitor, do you still live?”) and in the three seconds Lavellan takes to turn, you leave her.


End file.
